Grand Slam Communication
There were some robins in the Vitex trees outside my kitchen door.
They were brilliantly and spectacularly bright red.
I watched them, enchanted, for quite some time.
And then it hit me.
Old people watch birds.
I am watching birds.
Crap.
This is how it ends, isn’t it?
Oh my poor, dumb little dog.
We built a patio cover.
And now she can’t figure out the weather.
I was sitting on the patio, watching the rain.
She poked her nose out of the doggy door and came out to join me.
She was a little perplexed because she could see the rain and she could hear the rain, and she could smell the rain, but it wasn’t raining.
She tried to step off the patio, but it was, in fact, raining.
She quickly stepped back under the cover.
She tried another side of the patio.
Yeah, it was raining there too.
She went back to the first spot, and yes, it was still raining over there.
She gave me a perplexed look.
And didn’t seem to appreciate that I laughed at her.
She rage sighed and stalked back indoors.
Poor dumb little dog.
An English teaching account that I haven’t worked for in years has been contacting me to substitute.
“I don’t have a contract with you,” I always respond, “Please take me off your mailing list.”
They continue to send requests.
I am tempted to accept the job.
And then not show up.
What are they going to do?
Cancel my contract?
That might get me off their mailing list.
But I won’t do it.
It’s unprofessional.
The students would be the ones to suffer.
I always love the students, even if I don’t love the admin.
I have stopped responding to their requests.
I’m hoping that ignoring them will get me off their mailing list.
So far it hasn’t worked.
But I’ll keep trying.
Or not trying.
Whatever.
It was a mystery.
At 6:00 am, there was an enormous mess of a white powdery dust all over the kitchen floor.
It started in the pantry and trailed across the kitchen.
The trash cans were covered it in.
The laundry room had also been nailed.
It’s where we keep the cleaning supplies, and the broom and dustpan were covered in it too.
My first thought was drugs.
Yeah, I like to watch crime shows.
My head said flour.
But my heart was hoping that Lennie Briscoe would come knocking on my door.
I had two suspects.
The first Grown Son is a slob and would never clean up his own mess.
Since an attempt was made to sweep, he was eliminated as a suspect.
The second Grown Son occasionally makes a slight effort to clean up.
He got the blame.
But he vehemently denied it.
The first Grown Son was confronted.
He burst out laughing and confessed that he had knocked over the flour during a midnight snack.
I informed him that flour can’t be cleaned with a broom.
It just flies around and makes an even bigger mess.
This situation calls for the shop vac.
We’ve got our own Breaking Bad crime drama right here at home.
Or maybe not.
I was driving down a two-lane country road.
I kept plenty of room between me and the pick-up in front of me.
The guy behind me was annoyed.
He wanted me to speed up.
I refused.
He rage-lane-changed around me.
And then he pulled up short.
And slowed down to give the truck in front plenty of room.
Yeah, the guy in front was hauling a couple of Porta Potties.
You’d have to be in a crazy-insane kind of hurry to crowd the Porta-Potty Guy.
I’ve never been in that kind of a hurry.
I’ll never be in that kind of a hurry.
But if anyone ever wants to test it out, it would be very entertaining to watch.
Socks.
Socks are the bane of my existence.
Women’s socks are labeled as one-size-fits-all.
That is an outright lie.
The one-size-fits-all sock is never small enough nor snug enough.
In the girl’s department socks have sizes, but the large size is 4-10.
Which is the same as the one-size-fits-all sock.
The medium size is 10-2.
Excuse me?
There is an unaccounted-for size that wants to wear socks that fit.
Too-big socks create a sock bump.
Which is a nightmare.
Too-small socks slide down and bunch up.
Which is a nightmare.
Is a 2-6 size range for socks too much to ask for?
Apparently it is too much to ask for.
Thank goodness for flip-flops.
My back is feeling much, much better.
I am no longer hobbling.
But I am very, very stiff.
The Grown Sons have been taking full advantage of the situation.
They have been placing garbage in the hood of my sweatshirt.
I can’t twist around to get it out.
They think they’re hilarious.
Whatever.
I’ve lost the will to care.
If it’s just paper, I can live with it.
However, if I discover that they’ve put anything gloppy back there, like a yogurt lid or a banana peel, they will be eligible for the death penalty.
They have been warned.
Happy birthday, Mom.
She’s been gone for many years now.
I make a chicken tetrazzini dinner every year to celebrate her birthday.
Part of the tradition involves the Grown Sons complaining bitterly about the mushrooms.
This year, emboldened by his pending move to his own apartment, one Grown Son rudely declared, “Those mushrooms smell like the dog’s a$$hole.”
This led to an animated discussion about how in the world he came to know that particular bit of information.
Grandma would have thoroughly enjoyed this conversation.
In no particular order of preference, Mom loved:
If anyone ever wonders what it’s like to be a boymom, it can be summed up as a lively discussion about the dog’s a$$hole while lovingly preparing Grandma’s birthday dinner.
Happy birthday, Mom, I miss you every day.
I pulled a muscle in my back.
I’m in agony.
I can’t stand up straight.
I’m hobbling around the house, barely able to function.
The guys have been kind.
They have been helpful.
They have also been mocking me ruthlessly.
They, too, are hobbling around the house, just like me.
My loving family has also added sound effects to their hobbling.
Apparently sound effects are extra-special funny.
I fear for the day when I really am old and infirm.
Bob assured me that since he is older than me, he will certainly be stricken first.
I’ll remember that.
Sound effects will definitely play a part in his crippling old age.
Spring is in the air.
The days are longer.
The air is warmer.
The sun is brighter.
But just in case you weren’t sure, that first harbinger of Spring has made it abundantly clear that the seasons have changed.
The fire ants are back.